


Everybody loves Alexandré

by Lokuro



Series: Curse of Strahd Verse - bardic edition [1]
Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s) - Freeform, it all started with drama, we'll see how it ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokuro/pseuds/Lokuro
Summary: The background story of a romantic bard before the mists of Barovia covered his path.
Series: Curse of Strahd Verse - bardic edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836646
Kudos: 1





	Everybody loves Alexandré

Alexandré was the first-born. You could see it in his posture; in his gracious movements like steps of a lion who was circling his prey before the final leap; in his grey eyes full of cunning wit and cruel mischief.

Vincent was always his shadow. Following his sibling brother with pure adoration in his gaze and a soft song on his lips. To him the 3 minutes and 42 seconds of Alexandré’s head-start meant a whole lifetime of wisdom.

When he did not look up to his brother, Vincent could be charming and sweet in his own right. And the old cook would always save a few pastries for the young master, to see his eyes brighten with innocent delight. She would whisper sweet nonsense and stroke his hair, and Vincent would bask in the warmth of her affection and curl next to her cat at the kitchen fire and listen to the delightful horror of the old fairy tales she sang in the evenings. Oh, how thrilling were her stories of old horrors and outlandish creatures! 

The cook did not dare to offer anything to Alexandré. Neither the leftovers from the dessert nor her silly stories. The older boy has perfected the air of a true nobleman by the tender age of 8. By the age of 12, the whole household was terrified of him. Except Maximilian de la Morandière. The old merchant was so very proud to have such an excellent heir to his trade - which was the one other thing he loved dearly. He never failed to mention the story of his first daring expedition, back when Maximilian was just a young boy himself. Ambitious, poor and no more a nobleman than the old cook (the last fact always seemed to slip his mind during the recollection). Despite all odds and nevermind the pesky elves and even worse creatures that were said to kill and maim the travelers, he ventured deep into the Misty Forest and brought back the rarest spices and silks from a faraway country. This first loot helped to lay a solid foundation to a blooming trade, a trade that was built with his own blood and sweat. And if you ever hear of anything unnatural involved, it is just slander of all his lazy enviers who don’t believe that one can achieve such a great fortune with hard work. 

And now, all his efforts finally paid off. Alexandré was the apple of his eye, the very dream of a boy to come true. Intelligent and charismatic, ambitious yet rational - he was the perfect diplomat. He even managed to mitigate between his brash, pragmatic father and his sibling brother with his head full of midsummer dreams and fantasies. When Alexandré was there at the head of the table, he managed a clever conversation with his father about a new trade route to the far eastern lands full of unknown magic and artifacts, while simultaneously complimenting Vincent on his new song and inquiring about his future plans should he ever leave their estate for the bard college. Both Maximilian and Vincent were very much in love with Alexandré and would do anything for him. They would die to keep him alive.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans. 

Vincent will forever remember the night when the spirits took his brother. Even before the first blood was spilled, he felt the icy moon’s light creeping through the curtains and shivered with fear. The silk cushions and soft pillows were cold and damp as an early grave. Vincent wanted to shout and scream and flee into his brother’s bed to hold him tight and never-ever let go. But he could not move a limb and the rapid, shallow breaths that left his mouth were just icy clouds. Every song he knew has died and was rotting on his lips. Rotting inside him, unable to break free and scare off the spook. And as he lied there, unable to rise from his cold tomb, a pale shadow floated over him and towards the other bed. A white face, handsome and noble looked down on his small cold body and his shivering soul. The empty gaze burned like ice and was a relief and an insult at the same time. From Alexandré’s bed came strange sounds: a short scream, a foreign melody, a slurp, a heavy thump. Vincent would give anything to move his head. But the time crept at so burdensome a pace and at the corner of his eyes he could see even more white shadows floating past. From somewhere downstairs sounds of flesh torn apart reached through the thick walls but in his room all was silent again. Vincent felt nauseated. Inside his head he screamed the whole awful night long. He screamed all of his horror and pain, and when the light came, his throat was raw and his lips dry despite being sealed that night. As soon as the sunlight reached his fingertips, the spell broke and he rushed to Alexandré’s bed. It was empty and the blood-soaked silks were torn and rumpled. Alexandré was gone without a trace and Vincent’s whole life crumbled in the pale light of the morning, as he kneeled down at his brother’s bed and truly wept for the first time in his young life. 

It turned out that Alexandré was not the only victim of the night's hunt, but to his father this was the only loss that counted. Ever so pragmatic a merchant, he was lost to any worldly concerns. Why should he bother with his trade? Why care about any of the other people who lost their stupid relatives? Why should he pay attention to a barmy old cook who failed to survive the massacre? Why shave or dip his body in water? What sense did it all have? 

Before admitting total defeat, Maximilian had made one desperate attempt to remedy the situation. He tried to shape Vincent into his lost brother. Vincent - full of his own grief and sorrow and black hatred for something unspeakable - was not an easy prey. Despite his melancholic and soft looks he did not have any intentions of being molded. He lashed out at his father. For the first time in years, the two had to meet halfway without a soft cushion of Alexandre’s charm. And they both failed miserably. Maximilian tried pushing forward with the pure authority of his position and Vincent pushed back with the fierce defiance of a scared teenage boy. They both grieved and they both hurt each other. “I wish the spirits had taken you instead”, hauled for a long time through the empty corridors of the Morandière’s mansion. Later, neither of the two could tell who said the poisoned words first. Neither wished them back. 

Three years later, Vincent was far away from home. Who cared about a family estate that was falling apart and a father who was positively mad with grief. Who cared about any of the past. He was singing, he was happy. His head swam slightly in this pleasant mix of alcohol, adoration he received from the drunken tavern guests, and the thrilling flow of the song under his fingertips. The song ended on sorrowful tune and for a second he felt the cold chill of that one melody that he never dared to play. Every note was buried so deep into his heart that not even the thickest vape of the most potent opium haze could bring it to his fingertips. The chill passed and his eyes focused on the mundane. He gratefully accepted another mug of wine and saluted to an older woman who had caught his eye a while ago. Her long chestnut hair kept her face half hidden, but it was his third performance that she attended and by now his mind has filled in all the gaps of her biography and physiology with fantastic tales. Vincent was enchanted by the picture he created. Sure, she was terribly old, somewhat around thirty and to his seventeen year old self she seemed positively ancient. But she was graceful and mysterious and even if she was just a bored wife of a boring lord, he could sing her a new history. And it was time to stop shivering under Alexandré’s dead gaze and fully enjoy his new life!


End file.
